“She had blue skin. And so did he. He kept it hid, And so did she. They searched for blue their whole life through, Then passed right by – And never knew.”

If there is a book you want to read but isn`t written yet, write it.

And the tree was happy.

And if I say this is a wonderful poem, Is that exaggeration?

It’s all the same to the clam.

Whatever you are is all okay. I don’t like you anyway.

Once I spoke the language of the flowers, Once I understand each word the caterpillar said, Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings.

When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots?

But all the magic I have known I’ve had to make it myself.

And she loved a boy very, very much- even more than she loved herself.

There is a place where the sidewalk ends.

And he didn’t really know where he was going, but he did know he was going somewhere because you really have to go somewhere, don’t you?

And the boy loved the tree, very much. And the tree was happy.

If the track is tough and the hill is rough, thinking you can just ain’t enough.

I keep meeting all the right people at all the wrong places.

I can be somebody’s and still be my own.

And all the colors I am inside have not been invented yet.

Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings.

Are you waiting for success to arrive, or are you going out to find where it is hiding?

Suffering is a gift. In it is hidden mercy.

No one can long hide behind a mask; the pretense soon lapses into the true character.

The dream is the small hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul.

What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.

I think that we’re all mentally ill. Those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better – and maybe not all that much better after all.

I would like to uncover the secrets of the universe.